Dear Avnish,
Your tours give me time to myself. In the spare time I have, when like my friends, I do not have a job to badmouth about, over the tea made by the maid, I think about the fights we have. Are they really unnecessary? Or do they come from somewhere deeper? I think of the myths that my friends had warned would soon haunt me -- they had heard it from their young aunts -- clothes, cooking and cleaning. The cooking does not bother me, Shila does it well. The cleaning too is taken care of by Anita. The clothes, they are a character.
It is not a myth. They look up, dry from the sun, a hillock around me. Endless creases. What about them is so disapproving? They are quite obedient. You can bundle them for ironing, or fold them neatly. Like a well done sum, there is a sense of accomplishment when they are put back in categories. And while I am at it, senseless movies and conversations die quicker. Why do we fight? I thought about it.
Because I have time. And nothing to do with it. Almost out of nowhere, where I could have devoted it planning to rear children, I have an overbearing sense of guilt. Of being with you. And while my mister is next door, in his holy chamber of cure, I turn back to my stack of dried clothes. They are clean, and have cleaned me.
Yes, you are cherished, so I will keep this letter intact. Till your next tour, when I will have nowhere to go out to, I hope I do not have the whim to give it to you.
I eavesdrop on some of the symptoms of the patients in the next room. My mister is a nice man, Avnish. I wish I could give you this letter this time itself.
Oh I could die of you both.
Gayatri.
Your tours give me time to myself. In the spare time I have, when like my friends, I do not have a job to badmouth about, over the tea made by the maid, I think about the fights we have. Are they really unnecessary? Or do they come from somewhere deeper? I think of the myths that my friends had warned would soon haunt me -- they had heard it from their young aunts -- clothes, cooking and cleaning. The cooking does not bother me, Shila does it well. The cleaning too is taken care of by Anita. The clothes, they are a character.
It is not a myth. They look up, dry from the sun, a hillock around me. Endless creases. What about them is so disapproving? They are quite obedient. You can bundle them for ironing, or fold them neatly. Like a well done sum, there is a sense of accomplishment when they are put back in categories. And while I am at it, senseless movies and conversations die quicker. Why do we fight? I thought about it.
Because I have time. And nothing to do with it. Almost out of nowhere, where I could have devoted it planning to rear children, I have an overbearing sense of guilt. Of being with you. And while my mister is next door, in his holy chamber of cure, I turn back to my stack of dried clothes. They are clean, and have cleaned me.
Yes, you are cherished, so I will keep this letter intact. Till your next tour, when I will have nowhere to go out to, I hope I do not have the whim to give it to you.
I eavesdrop on some of the symptoms of the patients in the next room. My mister is a nice man, Avnish. I wish I could give you this letter this time itself.
Oh I could die of you both.
Gayatri.
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